Trench Crusade

We are the Choir of Saint Cecilia, though the soldiers who cower in their trenches call us the Dead Choir. Our Pneumatarch rose from the mire blind yet unbroken, his voice rolling across no man’s land like the roar of artillery. At his heel moves the Hound, a hulking Communicant who crushes men and barricades alike with hammer and shield, his nailed sockets empty yet his judgment flawless. Behind us grinds the Bastion, faith anchored in steel, its walls scrawled with sigils and its chambers heavy with incense and blood. Driving us forward is Cantor, the Castigator, who whips the hesitant into line and sings with the thunder of his punt gun, each blast another verse in the endless hymn of Cecilia

The Cult of the Black Grail do not march to victory, but to mourning. Once the dread legions of Hegemons Yersinia Rex and Febris, they are now cast out—broken, shunned, and left to wander No Man’s Land as funeral processions without end. Their flesh blackens and sloughs away, their armor rusts into reliquaries, and their voices rise in dirges that turn the battlefield into a cathedral of grief. To face them is to hear the death-song of a kingdom that will never rise again.